


And a Sunday's Asylum for All

by oudeteron



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 07:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oudeteron/pseuds/oudeteron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William knows where to seek reprieve from his own mind - not to mention his workaholic tendencies - on a hot afternoon in the summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And a Sunday's Asylum for All

**Author's Note:**

> Birkin isn't exactly well-adjusted here, the fic is from his perspective, and it shows. The format itself is semi-experimental in addition, including purposeful tense shifts.

More and more often, the physical events in William’s life feel almost like psychotic episodes.

His routine is to stay at the lab as long as he can endure, compiling the results of his research, planning the next steps, in a state of total concentration that nothing from the outside can penetrate. Often he sets out for the journey home after dark, but nobody dares or bothers to say a word. Sometimes, he stays at work until morning.

Other times, most notably on dragging summer weekends, he takes his materials and his overwrought mind to Wesker’s apartment.

 _William was sprawled naked on the bed, bathed in the oppressive afternoon sunlight. It hurt his head more than it hurt his eyes, used as he was to the darkened corridors of his research facility. He sat up dazedly, sheets pooling in his lap, and procured the most recent of his folders from the battered briefcase discarded beside the bed. Wesker was silent as William resumed where he had left off, hardly remembering whatever it had been that had originally disturbed his reading. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours later that Wesker stood up to dress._

 _“Do you sleep?” Wesker suddenly asked, shot William a questioning look from his chair by the large window. He seemed to be sitting comfortably, leaning more against the glass than the backrest, naked down to his waist—but his hair was tidy and his appearance inexplicably slick, making the idea that he had engaged in sex recently all the more of a seeming unlikelihood._

 _William kept his eyes on the paper and ignored the query. The weather was too hot and Wesker too irritating._

 _Slowly but surely, Wesker slithered over, grabbing one of the files as he went. Notes on the project of the G-Virus. William watched him leafing through the material from the corner of his eye. “You know, this is impressive,” Wesker said at last._

 _“Give me that.” William was no longer sure whether Wesker could appreciate the finer points of his brilliant creation, not now that Wesker preferred being in the field to serious scientific work. Their shared efforts on the T-Virus were long past, whereas William’s present endeavour was infinitely more intricate, more expansive. He put the files on the other pillow, tucked them into the far corner. They wouldn’t need the entire bed._

 _As he knew Wesker reached to the bedside table, he flipped to lie on his stomach without ceremony. His head was still in too much of an overworked knot. He thought of his family, of the work he could be doing—no, the weekend meant nothing—instead of wasting the time here in Wesker’s bed, but neither was enough to sway him in its favour. It was futile to deny Wesker his place as a constant. Through all the years since their appointment by Umbrella, approaching two decades now, Wesker had been a presence to rely on and, indeed, trust. William had learned especially the latter to be valuable beyond words. Even following his marriage, there was no way to discount the older, more stable bond. Whatever name they called each other at a given time, it mattered none. Wesker understood. He was the firm foundation and everything else an added disposability._

William has no reason to reject the fact, and his final place in this grand scheme is perfectly clear. He cheats on his wife because he cannot bring himself to cheat on Wesker.

They have done this before. William rests his forehead on his folded arms as Wesker closes in on him and presses against his exposed body with businesslike fluidity, easing inside for the second time that day. The afternoon shadows are menacing in the room; they move with them like in suspended animation. William’s eyes remain closed as his mouth falls slightly open, just enough for low sighs to pass through. They have done this before—not always like this, not every time and not only this way round—but they have done this and the occasion is nothing special. He concentrates on the feeling so that it can eclipse his mind with all the permanently running data, the thought processes, the clockwork-precise analyses, the restless buzz of cognition. It is a relief beyond imagining for however long this sensation may go on. And Wesker knows how to suit him.

Perhaps the irritating part is the weather.


End file.
